Jolt
by Durgas Dragon
Summary: John reflects. Third in the Spark & Mark series


**Jolts**

_**Disclaimer: This is a purely fan-made piece that is using the world and characters from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's **_**Sherlock Holmes****,** _**and is made entirely for enjoyment. No financial gain has been made in the making of this piece. All situations, plots, and other parts have been constructed by me and are my own creations**_

_**Summary: John reflects.**_

_**Author's Note: Third in the Spark & Mark Series. Possible out-of characterness. Un-beta'd and not written by a Brit. Please ignore any discrepancies between this and the original tales; some artistic licencing has been taken.**_

_**Constructive Criticism is always welcomed**_

_**Published: 16 September 2019**_

_**Rating: T**_

** John looked out at the fog and longed for the days when he would leave the rooms of his practice and there was someone waiting for his home that was not a maid or a housekeeper; even a dog would have been nice. He missed Mary's quiet presence, Rebecca's steady companionship, and Holmes's way of colouring everything in his life. In his weaker moments, he missed Holmes more than he missed either of his wives, but he tried not to think about that. Even if he had sparked with Holmes and even if the laws of the land had been accommodating, it wouldn't change the fact that Holmes had left this world and John was still alone.**

** And if he wanted to be honest with himself, he would have to acknowledge that Holmes would not have felt a reciprocating jolt if John had sparked when they touched; John may not have been as observant as Holmes was, but even he noticed that Holmes never loosened his collar and there was always something on his thin wrist. One did not have to be a genius to deduce that Holmes had not only sparked strongly with someone but had been thrice marked by them. The person must have been wholly unsuitable or male or dead or all of the aforementioned for Holmes to be so careful as to never show the marks, but it would explain many things about the man and why he had so little interest in sparking with others.**

** John lit a cigarette and let his thoughts wonder to his former wives. He had jolted with Mary and it had been nice, but it hadn't been the all-embracing, life-changing event he'd always been told it'd be, which was a little disappointing. He also had felt bad when, on their wedding night, he had seen that Mary had been twice marked, yet he was not. She always tried to hide it, but he knew that it hurt her deeply he never was marked by her.**

** He had sparked with Rebecca, but it had only been a contented tingling, not at all like the enjoyable jolt he had with Mary; it definitely had been weaker. John married her, despite this, because it removed her from her poisonous house and the woman deserved some happiness and joy before her malady claimed her.**

** Right before she had passed on, she had been so happy to show him that she now bore his heart mark. She had understood that he would never bear hers, but it did seem not bother her the same way it had upset Mary; John suspected that she had given up hope of ever sparking with anyone, much less developing their mark before she died before she had met him, and the fact that she had both made her happier than she knew was possible to be. She knew love and life before her untimely demise, and it made her passage into the afterlife easier.**

** He sighed before he tore his empty gaze from the window and looked at the newspaper spread across his lap. He started reading an article on a murder and halfway through, had to pause. There was such a warring of emotions in his chest—loneliness, interest, sadness, and fascination were a few he could actually give names to—that he could not focus on the story in front of him. The murder would have been something that Holmes would have been deeply curious about and once John had finished reading him the article—assuming, of course, that Holmes would have had the patience for John to get through the tale—he would be running down the stairs and out the door, calling for John to keep up.**

** He smiled slightly at the thought, then suddenly sat up. He was no Sherlock Holmes, but he was on decent terms with Lestrade; maybe he could try and apply Holmes's methods to the murder scene. It would be…nice to do it again, just like the old days. He probably would get it all wrong (he could already hear Holmes's voice correcting every mistake), but perhaps, just perhaps, he'd find something that would open up the case.**

** With a vigour he hadn't felt in a long time, he grabbed his hat and walking stick before stepping out into the thinning fog. He marched over to the house, a purpose to his stride that hadn't been there for many years.**

** The house was very fashionable and John paused for a moment to listen to an officer that was telling a small crowd what he thought had happened. John left in disgust a few moments later; it was abundantly clear to anyone with half a brain that the officer knew more about the inside of a bottle than he did of solving crimes.**

** He examined the outside of the house and the surrounding grounds. A half an hour later, all he had learned was the Adairs were **_**very**_** fond of azaleas and their dog was having some digestive issues. Despite all his attempts to apply Holmes's methods, he had come up blank. He had nothing new and no ideas as to how the crime could have been committed; investing the grounds had left him despondent and missing Holmes even more.**

** He started for his house and was so distracted by his melancholy that he nearly crashed into an old, hunched man. He apologised profusely and quickly gathered up the books that he had knocked out of the book peddler's arms so the elderly gentleman didn't have to bend over.**

** The peddler all but snatched the books back and shuffled off, muttering to himself darkly. John sighed slightly; that was what he got for wallowing in loneliness and self-pity.**

** Despite his despondence, he felt restless once he was back in his sitting room. He tried reading the rest of the paper, then a novel, and then a medical journal. He was pacing with a cigarette and debating whether he'd be able to focus on some paperwork he really needed to do from his practice when his maid politely and doubtfully announced there was a gentleman to see him. The way she paused before saying 'gentleman' rousted his curiosity; however, it was beginning to get late in the evening and whoever it was, he probably needed medical attention. He bade Emily to show the gentleman in as he quickly grabbed his bag and placed it on the edge of the sideboard.**

** Much to his astonishment, she showed in the surly old book peddler. He sat down and peered at the doctor from under shaggy, heavy eyebrows and a sagging hat brim. "You look surprised to see me," he said gruffly before John could speak. "But I was rude when you were modelling the very essence of gentlemanly behaviour and I made up my mind to make it up to you." He gave John a look when John asked how he knew where to find him and replied—a bit shortly—that he was a neighbour and his shop was just around the corner; now, please, accept the apology and a book.**

** John protested, but the old man would have none of it. The doctor finally took one of the books that was being thrusted at him and examined it. It was obvious the books were well cared for and he felt another flash of guilt for firstly, causing the peddler to drop something he took such prodigious care of and secondly, forcing the man to feel that he had to part with one of them.**

** "Ah, a good selection. You look like a man who would appreciate a slightly more eclectic title," the bookseller said and there was something different about his voice.**

** John glanced up and Sherlock Holmes—still with bits of a sideburn and bushy eyebrows stuck to his face—smiled at him.**

** He remembered standing up, but the next thing he was conscious of was Holmes leaning over him worriedly. "My dear Watson! I had no intentions of shocking you so badly. My deepest and sincerest apologies! Are you all right?"**

** "Holmes," John gasped, reaching out and grabbing the fraying edges of the frock coat in front of him. "Is it—are you—am I—you're **_**alive**_**?"**

** "I am." Long, wiry arms lifted the doctor into a sitting position. "Here, take a sip." Holmes raised a flask up to John's lips.**

** John ignored it and reached up slowly with a barely steady hand and brushed his fingers against Holmes's cheek, just to make sure he wasn't dreaming and the moment his skin made contact, an explosively powerful and pleasurable jolt ran up his arm and straight into his heart.**

_**x Fin x**_


End file.
